Dog Teeth
by slire
Summary: On Rulfio / a Whaler origin, featuring a boy's escape from the Trials of Aptitude.


**Disclaimer: **Dishonored © Arkane Studios and Bethesta Softworks.

**A/N: **Unbeta'd. Feel free to point out English errors. Not a first language.

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**Dog Teeth **

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On a half-wrecked boat on its way to the Rudshore District there lies a boy.

Or, rather, a murderer.

Rulfio was his name. It was the last thing he owned, except a rune he'd found while playing on the shore. His earliest memory was his father's head hanging on the front gate after Overseers had raided Potterstead's poorer districts. Afterwards, Rulfio had undergone a year of harsh training.

He'd seen his fellow recruits fall one by one under hypocrisy and brainwashing, minds dissected by veteran Overseers. Those who'd voiced disagreement were fed bullets in the backyard. Rulfio had clutched the rune as gunshots woke him during the night. He kept it hidden in an inner pocket.

Rulfio had kept his mouth shut and head down, somehow surviving the first trials. He'd had no one to speak to. In an environment where children were turned into witchcraft fighting war machines, trust was a fickle thing. An errant mind was forbidden; to wonder was forbidden. No one dared thinking of escape.

Rulfio was deemed unfit during the Trials of Aptitude, like many before him. The reason? He'd killed a man. On accident, of course, during a particularly harsh trial.

Too many recruits had bucked under this year. To save bullets, drowning seemed fit for the failed children. Lower ranked Overseers threw them off the cliffs and into Gristol's icy water like garbage. Most had sunken instantly. Those who could swim hadn't gotten far. Hagfish jaws had closed around their small, flailing limbs, triggering an orchestra of screams.

Save for one. Rulfio had somehow battled himself on top of a tiny boat. One could not call it a _boat_, per se, more like infused planks and waste. A boy had grabbed onto it. It almost tipped. Hagfish had then gnawed through his legs. He'd gurgled, eyes going white. Hysteric, Rulfio had kicked him off.

Blood had painted the ocean red around him. The hagfish had torn into children while they still lived, much like how whalers did to whales. Rulfio had seen more corpses than he had summers; a floating carnage consisting of at least sixty children (or parts of) had surrounded him. He'd passed out shortly after that.

When Rulfio woke, currents had taken him far away.

The smell of blood was replaced with the stink of rot and brine. Dazed, he sat up. On each side of him there were huge buildings. Their design hinted that this had once been a great and wealthy district; the decay told that those times had long since passed. "Rudshore... No, the Flooded District," Rulfio corrected himself. The old name entailed a golden age of factories and wealth. That's what he'd heard from careless, loud Watchmen.

He recalled his father's Outsider worship.

"Where are you leading me?" he asked the murky water reflecting a murkier sky, dark like the Outsider's Eyes. He dipped his finger into it and drew them back just before a pair of hagfish bit them off. He'd never seen them in these numbers before, much less in shoals.

Rulfio felt nauseous. The Abbey granted no 'last meal'.

The currents weren't particularly strong. If he was lucky, he'd get in land somewhere. To navigate using only arms and legs wouldn't be wise unless he wanted them gone. He remembered clearly how the monster fish had—

Calming his breath, he repressed his fear, focusing on one thing at the time. In this case, finding something edible. He had to think like that or fear would ruin him.

Rulfio stretched his legs a bit, careful not to tip the boat over. To his surprise, something yelped from under a dirty cloth at the corner of the boat. A tiny nose stuck forth, and when Rulfio slowly lifted the cloth and revealed a small, wet fur ball. It could not even be called a hound, body no bigger than a street rat.

_We always drown the runt._

Rulfio had skimmed through Hound Master Warton's book a long time ago. He knew how to handle scared pups. He reached out to it, allowing it to take in his scent. It shyly licked Rulfio's fingers. "I guess we're on the same boat," Rulfio whispered, smiling brokenly. If one weren't good enough, one would be put down. It was the same for all recruits in the Abbey, man or hound.

"What to name you, I wonder..."

Justice, Marshal, Voracious, Grace, Coincide... Popular wolfhound names, often reflecting its owner's biggest motivation. Overseer Amon described the demonic dogs as cold, ruthless, cruel creatures. Positive names kept the spirits away.

(Once Rulfio had brought stew to the barracks, he'd spotted a wounded Overseer sharing bed with his hound, Haven, clinging to it like a child. Overseer Amon had lied, but it wasn't the first time Rulfio had seen the Second Stricture broken.)

"I think I'll name you... Hope."

Rulfio's hand fell to his side and he sighed—there wasn't much to do but wait. He dozed off despite his hunger in a bad sleep, dreaming of hagfish and blood and screaming. After a while, Hope sought warmth and lay down close to him, even allowing Rulfio to pet him during the times of wake. He, too, knew what it felt like to be deemed worthless.

_Dunk!_

The boy rubbed sleep out of his eyes. He discovered the boat to have met an edge, and made swivels in the water to check for hagfish. He could see mud on the bottom. Did hagfish not swim in shallow waters?

Hope sniffed in the air, small ears turned back.

Rulfio took out the rune from an inner, secret pocket. He let it sink into the dark waters. "Thank you, creature of the sea." He jumped out of the boat. The hound started yelping—one couldn't call it baking—just in the moment when bone chilling shrieks tore through the air.

Rulfio turned around.

River Krusts opened to reveal their ugly insides. Green, smoking acid spit hit the water around the duo. Hope slid out of the boat. He struggled to keep his big head above water. Rulfio twisted around and grabbed the runt. He then battled his way through waist-high water.

The River Krusts readied themselves for another attack.

Rulfio clutched Hope like he had the rune.

It was over.

There was a whooshing sound and a flash of black. A few precise gunshots followed. The River Krusts cluster exploded. A gloved hand grabbed Rulfio's collar and pulled him up. Rulfio saw a face scarred both by weather and steel. "You smell like death," the man commented, voice rough. "Name, boy?"

"R—Rulfio, sir."

The man sat him down. "I thought they no longer sent orphans here to collect River Krust pearls."

"The Trials of Aptitude," Rulfio clarified in a rasp, pronunciation rehearsed. He clutched the runt.

Something flashed in the man's eyes at the mention of the Abbey. He turned towards the sea, "Another one of your schemes?" He turned back to Rulfio. "You're lucky. Someone is watching over you, Rulfio. ...How many boys were at your camp?"

Something dark came over the boy. He had seen things no child should see. "Fifty."

"Why were you deemed unfit?"

"I killed someone. ...They decided it'd been a bad year," Rulfio said hollowly. "They claimed the evil was too strong. That we were rotten ones, and like apples, disease spreads. So they threw us all into the water, in the middle of the night. I survived, but I saw... I... saw..."

Death.

_Perfect_. It didn't matter who, what, why, it be a fellow boy in a battle of a piece of bread or an Overseer who trained him too harshly—he had already decided. Rulfio looked to be about sixteen and was already trained within the art of killing. "How would you like," he said, "to avenge them?"

Rulfio's head snapped upwards. "How?" And then it shone through, the same thing that'd made him kill and kick the boy off his boat. "_How_?"

"Don't question my authority, boy."

But he was well-trained. "Yes, sir. I mean, no, I won't. Sir."

Daud made a few complicated gestures with his hand. Rulfio followed his gaze. Two men stood on the roof, and then they weren't. With a whoosh similar to the rough looking man (who seemed to be their boss), they stood behind him. They were wearing gas masks.

"Take care of him," their leader instructed, shoving Rulfio into the men's arms. "Clean him up. Tomorrow, he'll be entering your ranks. Train him. There'll be more recruits coming."

The statement chilled Rulfio. Had he traded one prison for another? More recruits. _Coming_. Of their own free will? Rulfio thought about running. But was what there for him out there?

"Master, what about..." one of the men trailed off. He sounded insecure. Young.

"Daud," the other one clarified, steadier. "What about the beast?" He pointed at the wolfhound pup in Rulfio's arms. It whimpered, as if aware of the mention.

"The runt? I don't care," the man who called himself Daud replied.

"Hope." Rulfio's lips thinned. There it was again—the defiance that'd nearly gotten him killed, and saved his life a moment ago. He wasn't worthless. He'd prove it. "His name is Hope."

Daud paused. A ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. "Let's see if Hope survives this wretched city."

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The rune lay in the water shore, forgotten.

Years pass before a masked assassin—a broken man holding the heart of his dead empress—picks it up.


End file.
